


Tuesday Afternoon

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Series: A Question Of Balance [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Spanking, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-13
Updated: 2007-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spanking as a metaphor for something else. No actual sex - it would be hard to call it Wincest - but it would be harder not to call it Wincest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, make no money, and mean no harm.

**Tuesday Afternoon**

November 16, 1999

It’s easier not to explain some things. Like why Sam Winchester is currently sitting down, his back propped against Dean’s bed, leafing through some soft porn magazine Dean keeps hidden underneath the training manuals in the cardboard box that goes everywhere with them. Or why he’s chosen to do this when Dean will be home any minute, heading into the bedroom they’re sharing and looking to relax after a long day at his temporary job. Or why he’s getting uncomfortably hard in his tight shorts, waiting.

It’s easier to blame that part on the magazine, but Sam knows he’d be lying if he used that as an excuse. And it’s easier not to think about why that would be a lie, not to come up with any possible reason for his current location and position. So he turns the page, carefully examining the scantily dressed blonde and wondering if that’s real fur on the edge of the red jacket.

He can hear the door to the apartment bang open, and the color rises in his cheeks, but he keeps his head down and pretends to be absorbed in what he’s doing. His heart beats louder as he peruses the magazine, looking at it but not really seeing it, all his attention fixed on something else. Something he’d rather not think about.

Dean saunters into the bedroom a minute later and stops dead when he sees Sam. His mouth twitches, like he’s not sure whether to be angry or amused.

“Sammy, what the hell are you doing?” he asks, in an all-purpose annoyed tone. Sam jumps like he’s surprised to hear his brother beside him.

“I…Dean….I…” He drops the magazine quickly, covers it with his hands, which are almost big enough to completely disguise it, but he knows Dean’s already seen the pictures and will know where he got it.

“You little perv.” There’s no mistaking the humor in Dean’s tone, but he’s not really happy about it either. There’s something else there. Sam waits for it, because he’s pretty sure he knows what’s coming. He’s not wrong.

“You know, I understand, you’re old enough to get curious about these things,” Dean says, and Sam wants to protest at the patronizing tone, because damn it, he’s been old enough for _years_ now and Dean knows it, but he really doesn’t want to have to explain this. So he keeps his mouth shut. Dean continues.

“We’ve all been there, Sammy. And I know you’ve had the sex talk, and I want to make sure you know it’s perfectly normal to have these feelings.” Dean is barely keeping the glee out of his voice, and Sam has to wonder why he thought this was such a good idea. But he doesn’t want to dwell on that, not with Dean right there to remind him.

“And it’s a much better idea to jerk off to some skin mags than to have unsafe sex with a girl who’ll just love you and leave you with Hepatitis C,” Dean grins, enjoying his own sense of humor. The smile fades as his voice gets stern. “But we have some rules around here, Sam, and one of them is that you stay out of my stuff.”

Sam knows he has to take this carefully, because he’s older than he used to be, even if Dean won’t admit it. “Yeah? So?” he asks defiantly. Dean will probably think he’s just embarrassed about being caught, not thinking clearly enough to be respectful.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Dean says, and sure enough, Sam’s tone is getting under his skin. “You’re getting your jollies with _my_ porn, kid. And you had to go through _my_ stuff to find it. And you did it without my permission, while I was gone. And I’m guessing that you weren’t planning on me finding you.”

Sam tries not to let his sudden blush give him away. Not that he thinks Dean will really pick up on it, because with Sammy, Dean just sees what he wants to see. And Sam’s a damn good actor, and a damn good liar, especially to his family. “Can we just forget about it? It’s not like this is your favorite one, anyway, there are less stains on it than there are on the others.” He shoots out the last part with a nasty smirk, and isn’t surprised when Dean’s tugging him to his feet and ripping the magazine from his pliant fingers.

“You just better have a damn good reason for this, Sammy,” Dean snarls, somehow towering over his brother even though they’re seeing eye-to-eye now.

Sam swallows. “Do I have to have a reason?” he asks. His mouth is dry and his voice isn’t quite so cocky now that it’s staring him in the face.

“Unless you want me to take it out of your ass,” Dean threatens.

Sam drops his head. “I don’t know,” he whines. He doesn’t have a reason. Not one he’s going to admit, even to himself.

Dean shrugs. “All right then. I don’t make bluffs unless I’m prepared to follow through.”

“What about the last time we played Texas hold ’em?” Sam asks, grinning evilly, because as long as he’s in for it anyway he might as well rub that one in Dean’s face. Beating his brother at cards is enough of a rarity that he’ll gloat over it all he can.

Dean sits down on his bed, kicking the cardboard box out of the way as he tugs at Sam’s wrists, drags him closer.

“You really want to make this any harder on yourself?” he asks softly, with a touch of iron.

“N-no,” Sam replies uncertainly.

“That’s what I thought.” With that Dean moves his hands to the button of Sam’s jeans, unzipping them and tugging them down as Sam fidgets a little, not really able to help it. He’s glad that he chose the magazine, because it’s handy excuse for the fact that he’s half-hard. Dean doesn’t point this out, just tugs Sam over his lap.

“Why are you getting spanked, Sammy?” he asks, the routine question he’s been starting off every spanking with since Sam was ten and John gave him permission to take care of any problems that came up while he was gone. Dean likes to keep things simple.

“Because I went through your stuff without asking,” Sam replies, his voice sounding odd floating up from where he’s laying facedown over his big brother’s lap, staring at the discarded magazine that holds absolutely no attraction for him. That’s not the reason, and he knows it. It’s easier to say that it’s the reason. It keeps it simpler. Cleaner.

“That’s right.” Dean doesn’t think about things too much. He takes them at face value, accepts the easy explanation. He just sees what he wants to see. So far, it’s worked out pretty well for him. He doesn’t stay awake at night, tossing and turning and overanalyzing and planning out things to do while Sam’s away.

He starts the spanking, over Sam’s briefs, and Sam can tell from the brisk, businesslike swats that they aren’t going to go any farther with it today. Dean’s delivering a standard reminder spanking, one that will sting at first, then start to burn, then stop as he’s on the verge of tears, without any undue embarrassment or overly-harsh punishment. He takes the slaps stoically, not responding to the growing pain or the tingling warmth left by Dean’s flat palm.

Dean’s an accomplished spanker. He’s learned how to do this from years of experience on both ends, and he approaches it the way he would approach any task: with determination and a small level of enthusiasm. He spanks methodically, evenly, paying equal attention to all parts of Sam’s bottom before turning his attention to the bare thighs that somehow hurt even worse than the sensitive rear end. Sam can’t help but gasp as these swats land, making a definite, immediate impact. Whatever his ulterior motives, right now he’s completely focused on the pain. When the spanking returns to his reddened backside, he can’t help squirming a little, and when Dean slaps his bottom a little harder in response he actually whimpers. His hand flies to his mouth as he gasps again, this time in surprise and horror that that _sound_ actually came from _him._

“Settle down, Sammy,” Dean warns. “Unless you need me to do this bare.”

“No, please!” Somehow the words find their way out of Sam’s mouth even around his hands, and he hangs his head at the note of panic.

Dean chuckles. “I didn’t think so.” He finishes the spanking quickly, going twice more over the sore skin before landing two final exuberant smacks to the back of Sam’s thighs. Sam bites his lip as Dean pats him on his back, trying his hardest to push back the tears lingering just behind his eyeballs, waiting for their chance to come out.

He doesn’t know where he gets such stupid ideas. He pushes himself off Dean’s lap quickly, turning around so Dean won’t see how close he is to crying. He pulls his jeans up roughly, refusing to react when they chafe against the backs of his thighs and his buttocks. He buttons them without saying a word and turns away, ready to flee to the bathroom.

“Aw, Sammy, don’t be like that.” Dean’s voice is coaxing, and Sam finds himself turning automatically, giving his brother an injured look.

“You spanked me. It _hurt,_ ” he says, aware that he sounds all of twelve years old.

“Yeah, but you were asking for it. Don’t get mad at me because I gave it to you.”

Sam’s eyes fill with tears at that, and Dean softens immediately. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it, kid,” he promises. “C’mere.”

He beckons, and Sam returns reluctantly to the bed, where Dean pulls him down to sit beside him, gives him a one-armed hug and tousles his hair affectionately.

“Don’t hold a grudge,” he says. ‘You always want to kiss and make up after a spanking. I’m gonna freak out if you suddenly develop a spine.”

Sam gives a little choking laugh. “I’m sixteen, Dean. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“Sure you’re not, Sammy,” Dean says, like he’s humoring his little brother. But he doesn’t let go, he lets Sam melt into him, massages Sam’s shoulder gently. Sam closes his eyes. He pays attention to the sensations flooding his body—the ache in his ass, slowly dying down. The feel of Dean’s fingers, squeezing the stress away like magic. His brother’s scent, familiar and comforting, and the fact that he’s not going anywhere. It’s easier to focus on these things than it is to think about the reasoning behind it. That can come later, guilty in the shower or in his bed when he’s alone. Now is all about the moment. He leans a little closer and Dean doesn’t laugh. They don’t speak, and they don’t move for a long time.


End file.
